


Red-Handed

by darkavenger



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons does Grif's laundry, because they're that horrifically domestic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red-Handed

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr.

“Here’s your laundry, asshole.”

Grif doesn’t even bother looking up from his magazine and simply grunts in acknowledgement. Simmons gives a soft huff of exasperation but still places the neatly folded pile of clothing down carefully, despite his irritation. Of course, if he did chuck the clothes, it would defeat the purpose of folding them in the first place, and for someone like Simmons that would just be unthinkable.

“Did you hear me?” Simmons asks, even though obviously Grif did, and Simmons should know by now that if he’s waiting for thanks, he might as well pull out a chair.

“Yeah,” Grif acknowledges disinterestedly, flipping a page in one of Donut’s fashion magazines (he’s looking at the swimsuit spread, which is the closest thing to pornography on this godforsaken planet, and frankly, he’s just hoping Simmons will leave soon, to go do the rest of his chores or whatever it is exactly Simmons does for fun).

“No need to thank me,” Simmons mutters under his breath, like the passive-aggressive princess he is.

“Oh, I won’t,” Grif says. He lowers the magazine momentarily, just enough that he can peer over the top and watch as Simmons moves over to his side of the room in a huff. He has to take his entertainment where he can, after all, and there’s nothing funnier to do than watch a grown man put his (folded and ironed) underwear away stroppily. Well, not in Blood Gulch outpost one, anyway.

“Hey,” he says with frown as he notices something, “that’s my tshirt. What the hell are you doing with it?”

“I-is it?” Simmons stammers, looking inexplicably embarrassed. Grif is puzzled; he’d expected Simmons to roll his eyes sarcastically, hand him the t-shirt and tell him to calm down, it was just a mistake, god, he wouldn’t want any of Grif’s clothes after they’d been on him anyway. Instead, he looks almost shamefaced, like he’s not been caught in a simple mistake, but rather caught red-handed, trying to steal Grif’s favourite and most comfortable, but also most extremely worn tshirt. Which is ridiculous, because why on Earth or anywhere else would Simmons want that? Last week, Simmons had threatened to throw it away, citing disposal on the ground it was ‘really really fucking gross’ and impossible to get truly clean.

Honestly, Grif couldn’t even deny that; this t-shirt has literally been through the wars. It’s more hole than cloth at this point, the black fabric faded from countless bleachings and stained darker with indeterminable fluids, some of which, Grif was horribly sure, included blood. It’s not the kind of thing he could imagine anyone besides himself wanting to wear, let alone someone like Simmons. Besides, it’s not like it would even fit him - it’s so stretched out it’s baggy on Grif at this point, it would swamp Simmons, God, he thinks with a smirk of the picture Simmons would make wearing it, the way it’d fall to his knees like some sort of dress - Grif swallows, throat clicking and suddenly dry at the mental image. Simmons, sleepy-faced in the morning, wearing his t-shirt - the way the neckline would slip and expose more skin, the thought of Simmons sleeping in his shirt, or eating breakfast in it.

“- I must have picked it up by mistake,” Simmons is saying, still looking guilty as fuck. Grif’s shirt is clutched in his hands, like he’s afraid to let go.

“Actually, you can have it,” Grif says, attempting to sound casual.

“Really?” Simmons sounds surprised and hopeful, before frowning in sudden suspicion, “Wait. What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Grif says, with a shrug, “I was going to chuck it anyway.”

“Liar,” Simmons snorts, refolding the tshirt before tucking it away carefully in his top drawer. “You never throw anything away. You never even throw you goddamn candy wrappers away, you just leave them on the floor for me to pick up.”

“Yeah,” Grif says, smirking, “that ways it’s like team work. You love team work, don’t you Simmons?”

“Sure,” Simmons says, eyes narrowing, “except with you it always seems like I’m doing all the work.”

“Well, I know how much you love tidying up,” Grif responds lazily, returning to his magazine, “I figure, why deny you one of the few pleasures of your life?”

“Asshole,” he hears Simmons mutter, and like that the conversation of the tshirt drops.

Grif doesn’t even mention it the next morning, when he’s woken by Simmons bent over him, shaking him awake with impatient hands, Grif’s old tshirt hanging off him. He doesn’t mention it, but it’s certainly not the worst sight he’s ever woken up to.


End file.
